


The Beat of his Heart

by PolarisNebula



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolarisNebula/pseuds/PolarisNebula
Summary: A one-shot of the calm after the storm of a hunt. Or what happens later, back at the motel. I felt like Dean could do with a bit of comfort.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	The Beat of his Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworking of my first ever fanfic. I don't own any of the recognisable characters, I'm afraid.

She always sleeps in one of his plaid shirts. Worn in to the point of being worn out, the cotton is soft, the neckline frayed and it smells of him, of bergamot and apples, fresh air and a touch of wood smoke. It makes her smile as she pulls the collar up to her nose and inhales deeply. It’s strange how evocative scent is, when it’s one of the least valued senses. It takes her briefly back to a different time and a different place. Not here, not now, in this seedy, cheap motel. A time before the hunting began in earnest.

Dean lays with his back to her. Propped up on her elbow, she watches him. She can see his ribs move almost imperceptibly as he breathes. She knows that this lack of movement comes from years of hunting - you learn to be completely still, even in sleep. Especially in sleep.

Despite it being 1.30 in the morning, she can still hear traffic outside, each set of headlights slicing through the thin drapes and echoing across the room, travelling from the window along the floor and the ceiling before disappearing.

She turns to look at Dean again. The sheets are pushed down to his waist. It’s a hot night in June and this motel has no air conditioning. She forgets where they are exactly. Tennessee or Arkansas maybe. Certainly not as south as Louisiana. She knows that they’d have been just as comfortable sleeping in the Impala, but sometimes it’s good to have the security of four walls and a half way decent bathroom. 

She reaches out a hand to touch one of the scars on his back, one of many. He stopped being able to tell you where he got each one from a long time ago. Maybe this one was from a werewolf, maybe a wendigo or just your average, everyday demon. The scar was long, the edges slightly raised and puckered. She strokes the tips of her fingers along it, feeling how hot his skin is, coated with a thin sheen of sweat. She places her palm flat against his back and edges closer to him, gently kissing his shoulder. He sighs quietly and she can tell that he knows she’s there.

Swinging her legs to the side of the bed, she carefully pulls away from him and pads softly to the bathroom. She glances at the long figure stretched out on the pull out, squinting slightly to try and see if his eyes are open.

“Hey, you good?” He speaks softly. 

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m OK. Go back to sleep.”

In the bathroom she cups her hands under the running faucet and takes a mouthful of water. It’s cool and refreshing and she leans forward until her forehead is pressed against the smooth surface of the mirror. Her breath mists up the glass. Moving her head back, she examines the bruise that’s forming around the cut below her right eye, a remnant from tonight’s hunt, a parting gift from a vengeful spirit. She cups her hands under the running water again and rinses her face before shutting off the faucet and patting her face dry on the threadbare towel that rests by the sink. 

Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, she pauses. Everything is so still in comparison to the frantic, frenetic energy of the last three hours. The monotonous white noise of the car engines seems almost restful. She half expects to hear the flap of wings, the light step of the angel as he appears. But he keeps his distance, allowing them to recover, to regroup and to rebuild. He knows where they are though. He always knows.

She slides back into bed and closes the distance between them. Laying along Dean’s back, she reaches her slim arm around his ribcage, under his arm, to rest against his chest. She can feel the beat of his heart. He says her name, quietly, almost a whisper, and turns onto his back, his eyes locking with hers. She continues to rest her hand on his chest, tracing the tattoo over his heart, and smiles gently at him. Resting her head on his shoulder, she relaxes. Despite the heat in the room, he throws his heavy arm around her, locking her in tight. And she feels safe.


End file.
